Too Much
by Mirnava
Summary: Even your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man gets overwhelmed sometimes.


It was all too much. He was trying to do too much all the time. He knew this. But he couldn't just _stop_. He couldn't stop going to school. He couldn't stop doing homework or helping Aunt May clean their apartment. He couldn't stop being a friend to Ned and MJ. And he definitely couldn't stop being Spider-Man. But he knew - he had this _feeling_ in his gut - that he had to do _more._

But he was drowning already.

But he couldn't show that either. He had to act like everything was okay. Like he was on top of his game. Heck, like he was on top of the world. He had to keep his mask in place.

But it was all so hard.

He felt like screaming all the time. He felt _caged_ , like a wild animal that had been caught and trained to do pointless tricks. He felt like his life was going in circles: always going, always moving, but never getting anywhere. Never _doing_ anything. And feeling caged just made him angry. Every little thing, every _tiny_ inconvenience, became another cause for anger. A personal assault on his existence. Every gust of wind that ruffled his papers and each person in front of him walking _just_ too slowly and every crosswalk light that turned red just before he got to it and each bug that chirped too loudly was meant as a personal insult to him. He knew, logically, that they were not. That they had nothing at all to do with him. But each minor thing made him that much angrier. He desperately needed to punch something, _hard_. But the city had been quiet lately.

He had so much to do all the time. So much piling up on his plate. He had always been a procrastinator, so sitting down and doing nothing came naturally to him. But the caged feeling never left. He tried going for walks, but during that time he would get frustrated with himself because he was taking time to walk and clear his head instead of simply finishing the tasks at hand and ridding himself of the problem completely. So he would go back home and sit down to do his work, then get distracted and procrastinate further. It really was a vicious cycle.

He tried talking to May about his problems. The I-don't-feel-like-my-life-is-going-anywhere problems, not the procrastination. Talking them out had always helped in the past, and she tried to help, but she didn't know what to say. So he tried talking to Tony, but the _genius_ billionaire playboy philanthropist only tried to _fix_ his problems instead of simply _listening_ to him. Peter didn't _want_ that. He wanted the perfect significant other who knew _just_ what to say and do to make him feel better. To make him feel validated and wanted and loved and not like a failure. But he knew that only really existed in fiction, which made him sad on top of already being angry. And the fact that he didn't want answers to his problems but he _did_ want answers to his problems and even _he_ didn't know what the correct response to _himself_ was until he was in the moment – and if he shared that with whomever he was talking to and told them what to say, it would lose all of its meaning – it all just made him that much angrier with himself.

He should _know_ what he wanted to hear, right?

He should know what would make him feel better, right?

But he didn't.

And he couldn't show any of this.

So in his room late at night, sometimes at his desk, leaning over papers, and sometimes lying in his bed, he cried. He felt like such a loser when he did, but he was _lonely_. Sure, he had May and Ned and MJ, but he was painfully lonely for someone who really understood him, who just _got_ him. Who would stick around when the depression crept in and not leave his side until this wave had passed. Who would know exactly what to say and do.

But he knew he had to do something. He had to let all of these emotions out before he broke. So he threw on his suit, strapped on a backpack with some gym clothes and hand wraps, and, after leaving a note for Aunt May (she worried when he didn't tell her where he was going), he jumped out the window and swung along through the city to the open-late boxing gym near his apartment. It would definitely not be a permanent solution, but it would help him to at least get some of his anger out before he exploded at the wrong person.


End file.
